


What I did on My Summer Holidays

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Book: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Gen, Paternal Lestrade, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-31 05:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6458329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock and John went off to Dartmoor, how did Lestrade get dragged into it? And what did he make of it all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg watched the baggage carrousel with one eye while keeping the other one out for Sam. He'd been sent off to find a cart, preferably one that took a euro coin instead of a pound coin, because that was all they had left. The flight from Jerez had been significantly delayed, which didn't help, because it meant that Heathrow was far busier now at 8am it would have been at the original arrival time late last night. And Greg still worried about his nephew being able to cope with large crowds, even though over the years, the lad had developed some pretty impressive coping skills.

That's why Greg had agreed with Carole to be the "responsible adult" and take his nephew away with him on his first proper holiday away from his family. It was the start of the summer break, and the trip to Spain had been his treat, a kind of reward for Sam getting through his first year of university on his own. The summer job started the day after tomorrow- as a mechanic's assistant at the local VW garage in Colindale. Sam wanted to put his book learning to practical use, and get his hands dirty on some engines.

So, when Greg had asked him where he wanted to go, there wasn't even a moment of hesitation- "Jerez, Spain- on the 4th of May the third race of the Grand Prix season takes place there." Sam was clearly excited at the prospect of his first opportunity to attend a real Formula one race, and to do so now was just about his dream-come-true holiday.

Lestrade had done a deal. "Spain's fine, but this is my break too, so after the race, we head for the beach. I've always wanted to learn how to windsurf, and the beaches at Cadiz are a great place to go to learn. You might find it fun too- or maybe kite surfing. Something different."

And it had been a great break. Two weeks of sunshine, heat, and activity. Sam's enthusiasm about the car race was infectious, and Greg found himself enjoying the spectacle even more than he thought he would. And Sam found a sport that he could relate to- not windsurfing or kitesurfing; no, his delight was land-yachting, where carts on wheels raced on the flat sand beaches using nothing more than a sail, wind-power and a willingness to take risks. Crash helmets were definitely needed, but Sam just adored the sensation of speed, which nothing on water could ever match. It was more about balance and skill than about bulk or strength, and Sam's shorter height and slighter weight gave him a positive advantage over bigger youths.

So, the two of them had come back from Spain with some great stories, sore muscles and serious tans. Sam wasn't the most talkative companion, but it suited Greg to have a break where the emphasis was on sleeping late, reading a good book, or getting physically exhausted on the beach or in the water.

"Detective Inspector, I believe these are your bags?" The polite question broke through Greg's concentration as he spotted Sam across the baggage hall wheeling a cart toward him.

"What?" He turned to look at a man in a suit who was carrying both his and Sam's suitcases. It took a moment to register the fact that he'd been called not by his name, but his job title. "Who are you?"

"My name isn't important, but my employer would appreciate a word with you, as soon as possible."

Oh, must be one of Mycroft's minions. He gave the man a firm look. "Is everything alright?" Greg did not want to alarm Sam, if something had happened to Sherlock- which was about the only reason why he could imagine Mycroft wanting to speak to him so urgently that he couldn't wait for him to get through the arrivals lounge. He'd come air-side; that makes it urgent if he's bending airport security to get to me here.

The man gave a reassuring smile. "Yes. It's urgent, but not life threatening." This was said quietly, and finished before Sam reached them. Greg appreciated the man's discretion and hoped that he had been briefed not to say too much in front of his nephew. Sam adored Sherlock, and would instantly be concerned if there was a problem.

Sam saw the man, but looked straight at his uncle. "Okay?"

"Yeah- just the job reaching out. Let's get you through customs and find your mum. She's probably been having kittens ever since last night when the flight delay was announced." The three of them went through the green channel- nothing to declare. The bottle of Spanish wine that Greg was bringing from Spain for Carole and Stephen was within the personal limits- and he'd been virtuous and passed up the chance to buy bargain priced cigarettes. All the physical exercise had been a great substitute for nicotine cravings.

Carole's reaction to seeing her son was to try to envelope him in a hug.

"Aw, Mum- leave off. I'm not a kid." Then she saw the man standing next to Greg and gave him a puzzled look.

He decided to cut off the questioning. "Duty calls. So, off you go, Sam. Send me the link to the photos when you've got them up." He handed Carole the bottle in the duty free carrier bag and waved her off.

And that was that; he was escorted by the agent out of Terminal Two and into a waiting car. Which was conspicuously empty of one three piece suited Holmes. As he slid into the back of the leather seat, Greg wondered if there would be a rendezvous somewhere. Then his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Detective Inspector. I trust you enjoyed your holiday?"

"Stuff the pleasantries, Mycroft. I know you don't mean them. What's up?"

"I've arranged with your superiors to extend your holiday for a few days. You're off to sunny Devon."

Greg's brow furrowed. "What's Sherlock up to these days?"

"A rather unusual case of breaking and entering. As in… he broke into a top secret military installation yesterday by pickpocketing my ID; managed to talk his way out somehow, after abusing security protocols. I'd like you to go find out what is going on, please."

The 'please' was a surprising touch. Greg sighed. "Why me?"

"Well, he just might talk to you. He's not really doing so to Doctor Watson, apparently although the doctor did go along for the ride. From what I can find out in the dark depths of Dartmoor, there is a client involved."

Greg smirked. "You mean Sherlock managed to circumvent your efforts to stop casework?"

"Yes. Annoyingly so. It appears I underestimated the client's desperation- he actually arrived at Baker Street unannounced two days ago."

Greg let his amusement show in his tone of voice. "Well, what's a minor British Government Official to do? You could't quarantine Baker Street completely?"

"Levity at my expense is not…seemly, Detective Inspector. And my motive in asking you to make enquiries is well-intentioned, I assure you. Sherlock is not behaving rationally at the moment, and the Doctor was concerned enough to contact me this morning. It appears that Sherlock went AWOL last night. You are more aware of his proclivities than most- and less susceptible to his smokescreens when he is trying to hide unacceptable behaviours."

"Mycroft, maybe if you weren't so hell bent on depriving him of cases, then he wouldn't be doing...whatever you think he is doing. I really don't like being caught between you two."

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then a somewhat frosty "Very well, Detective Inspector. The alternative is to wake Doctor Cohen out of her retirement and send her down. Somehow, I think Sherlock's receptivity to your presence might be better than to her, but if you insist on being awkward, then there is no alternative."

Ooh, you bastard. "That's a form of emotional blackmail, Mycroft and you know it." On the one hand, Greg didn't like being manipulated so blatantly. On the other hand, whatever Sherlock had done to get his brother so riled up, it did not bode well. If John had been worried enough to contact Mycroft, and now the elder Holmes was talking about sending a psychiatrist down to Devon, then Greg was minded to take it seriously. Finally, he muttered, "Oh, to hell with it. I'll go."

"Good. The driver knows where to take you- some little village on Dartmoor. Some clean clothes from your flat are packed in a case in the boot of the car. Bon Voyage. You will keep me informed, won't you?" It wasn't a polite request, despite the question in the tone. Greg ended the call without replying.

Not a chance in hell. It would take a lot to make Lestrade back Mycroft over Sherlock. As he settled back onto the leather seat and the car drove westwards on the M4, the DI decided that Mycroft probably knew that, and was counting on it. He sighed. The things I do for the Holmes brothers.


	2. Chapter 2

The car was surprisingly comfortable, and Greg had been hanging around an airport half the night, so it wasn't long before he drifted off. When the driver turned off the A38 onto the slip road and then a roundabout to pick up the A348 Tavistock Road, the movement of the car toppled the snoozing DI onto the armrest and he woke up with a start. Disoriented at first, it took a moment or two for him to remember where he was and why.

He leaned forward and tapped on the privacy screen between him and the driver. An electric motor slipped it down and he could see the driver looking in the rear view mirror at him. "Yes, sir?"

"Where are we?"

"Just on the edge of Plymouth, sir. About thirty minutes- maybe forty five depending on traffic. You'll be in Grimpen before lunch."

"Thanks." Lestrade sank back onto the leather. Actually, he was hungry. The breakfast on the plane had been basic. He felt the need for a wash and a change of clothes. After the warmth of Spain, he found the air-conditioned car a bit chilly, so he slipped his cream jacket back on, struggling with the seat-belt for a moment as he worked it on over his shoulders.

His nap had refreshed him a bit. He found himself replaying in his head the phone call with Mycroft. Whatever the hell was going on between the two Holmes brothers, Lestrade was pleased that Sherlock had managed to circumvent the quarantine around case work. That probably explained why it was so bloody far away from Sherlock's beloved London. The man lived and breathed London's crime scene so well that he rarely had reason to leave it. The work he occasionally did with other forces was always something really odd; it had to be an eight or higher on the "Sherlockian scale" of weirdness. It had to be, to compensate for the stresses involved with working in places he didn't know with people he didn't trust. As much as the consulting detective routinely insulted him and his team, Lestrade knew that they had developed a way of working together over the time that was as comfortable as a pair of old slippers. And John had made that better- his presence seemed to keep the consulting detective grounded; his empathy made up for his partner's deficits.

Lestrade wondered if that's how the case found the pair- maybe through John? It wasn't like Sherlock to get involved in a military case. His natural arrogance tended to put the uniformed officers on the offensive; they had never, to Greg's knowledge, been willing to consult with him, preferring to manage their own affairs. The barriers went up; the shutters came down- no 'civilian', especially one as unorthodox as Sherlock, would be allowed anywhere near a military case. He was glad that John was there- his Army background might help keep Sherlock in line a bit so he didn't rub the military authorities up too much.

He found it amusing that a client had managed to circumvent Mycroft's "no go" area. Mind you, that might mean that Sherlock was so desperate that he'd take just about any case, just to be rubbing his brother's nose in it. And Greg certainly didn't like hearing from the elder Holmes that Sherlock wasn't talking to John. That worried him, more than he liked to admit. For the past two and a half years, Lestrade had relied on John. Sherlock was more effective, more stable- and he'd managed to stay clean throughout. If Mycroft's insinuations were to be believed, that might have ended. _What game are you playing, Mycroft? Why push him so hard, why do you want him to fail?_

The drive across Dartmoor in the morning sunlight was amazing. He'd not been to the area before and was surprised at how bleak and empty it was. When the car pulled into the little village of Grimpen, Lestrade couldn't help but think that the chocolate box houses seemed a million miles aware from Sherlock's usual London jaunts.

He checked in at the Cross Keys and picked up a key. "Just a single left, I'm afraid; your secretary made the call a few hours ago." said the owner. Greg wondered which of Mycroft's minions had played the role. He went upstairs, had a quick shower to help wake himself up and then headed back downstairs.

He was still in a holiday mood, so he went up to the bar, and ordered a pint. He decided to do a bit of digging. "Well, I'm lucky to get that last room, because I wanted to give my friends a surprise."

"Oh, so, do you know the two blokes down from London? Are you here to investigate this mystery hound, too?"

Greg hadn't a clue what the man was talking about. "I'm just here on holiday. What's that about a dog?"

"Then you haven't seen the documentary? I've got a video if you want; there's a legend about a demon dog that's supposed to haunt the moor, and now there've been some sightings. Your two friends seem interested."

The man lifted the full pint glass onto the bar and gave a wry smile. "It's all a load of bollocks, if you ask me. I know it's good for business, but really- the idea of a wild dog the size of a pony terrorising the locals? Makes great TV, but I live here and I've never seen anything like that."

That's when Greg heard a familiar voice outside. Sherlock was talking, his voice excited. He turned to see a pair of grey green eyes lock onto his.

"What the _hell_ at you doing here?"

The vehemence of Sherlock's question surprised Lestrade. From years of experience, he could judge the man's volatile mood in a moment. _He's swearing; he never swears._

"Well, nice to see you, too." He decided to brazen it out. "I'm on holiday, would you believe?"

Sherlock wasn't buying it for a second. "No, I wouldn't." He sounded outraged at what he clearly thought was a lie.

Greg was relieved to see John come in and head over to the bar. "Hello, John."

The doctor was surprised, but his welcoming smile and greeting reassured the DI a bit, so he directed his next comments to him instead of Sherlock. "I heard you were in the area. What are you up to? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?" He kept his tone light and cheery.

Before John could answer, Sherlock butted in with an angry voice, "I'm waiting for an explanation, Inspector. Why are you here?"

Greg gave him a careful look, and repeated himself, quietly. "I told you: I'm on holiday."

Sherlock was not placated. "You're brown as a nut. You're clearly just back from your 'holidays'." He sounded outraged.

Greg decided to play it cool. "Yeah, well, I fancied another one."

John was starting to look uncomfortable at the tone of Sherlock's voice.

"Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it?" Sherlock was livid.

In all the years that they had known each other, Sherlock had rarely been angry at Greg. Frustrated at times, insulting about his intelligence, rude – yes, all of those applied, and it didn't matter a jot to Greg. But, he suddenly realised that by sending him down here, Mycroft was quite blatantly provoking Sherlock. He tried to reassure the younger man. "No, look…"

Sherlock didn't even wait for him to finish. He spat out "Of course it is. One mention of Baskerville and he sends down…my _handler_ to…to spy on me incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself _Greg?_ " he sneered.

Lestrade was shocked for a moment.

John came to his rescue. "That's his name."

Sherlock looked sceptical. "Is it?"

That surprised Lestrade more than anything Sherlock could have said. He knew that to Sherlock he'd always be 'Lestrade'- like the English Public School boy he was, Sherlock almost always referred to people by their last names. And he'd once explained why he never, ever called Greg by his first name- unprofessional, in his view. No, what surprised Greg was the fact that Sherlock was questioning John. _A touch of paranoia?_ Actually, it wasn't unjustified on this occasion, and that made the jibe sting more than it might otherwise have.

He decided to play it down. "Yes, if you'd ever bothered to find out. Look, I'm not your handler." He picked up his pint. "And I don't just do what your brother tells me."

John broke the awkward silence. "Actually, you could be just the man we want."

Sherlock wasn't mollified. "Why?" He was still suspicious, but the doctor didn't let it stop him. He went on to explain about an invoice he'd pocketed from the bar, for a large quantity of meat supplies delivered to a supposedly vegetarian establishment. The DI wasn't sure the significance of that point, but it did distract Sherlock for a moment. John then brought Greg straight into whatever it was he was investigating, telling the DI that he should put the squeeze on the owners of the bar to explain what was going on. Although he was somewhat mystified as to why it mattered, he fell in with John's plans.

While Greg downed his pint, the doctor filled him in on the case- a quick précis of Henry Knight's mad dash to Baker Street, his childhood trauma and what had happened on the moor last night. Sherlock didn't contribute, but just watched the pair of them.

John finished his explanation just as Greg got to the bottom of his glass. "This invoice for meat suggests something's going on here at the pub; you're just the man to get them to tell us what's going on."

When Greg played the Scotland Yard card with the owner and the chef, forcing them to go over their paperwork, he kept one eye on what was going on between John and Sherlock- both of whom seemed to be out of sorts. He watched as Sherlock poured John a cup of coffee. That felt odd- and the doctor seemed uncomfortable about it, making some comment that the DI couldn't quite hear over the explanation that the chef was trying to give about how the records of meat supplies going back two months. Whatever John said, it provoked a look of hurt on Sherlock's face. That surprised Greg more than anything. For a man who rarely showed emotion, Sherlock was doing so now- anger at him, distress at John. He began to wonder if Mycroft was right; something serious might be up with Sherlock's state of mind.

But then the chef started spinning some story about falling off the vegetarian wagon, and Lestrade just started laughing at the preposterous comment. One thing led to another, and the truth came out- the pair had been keeping a dog out on the moor, feeding it the meat and keeping the TV story going to help business. They claimed that the dog had been put down, and that it was all just a harmless business prank. Lestrade knew there was little evidence of criminality, so apart from making the point that their shenanigans had scared a man already traumatised, there wasn't much he could do. He left them feeling embarrassed, and headed for the sunshine. He stood there for a moment wondering what the hell was going on with the case, and why Mycroft had sent him down to Devon. Was it simply another example of Mycroft trying to tighten the screws on Sherlock? Had he unwittingly been manipulated?

John joined him a moment later. "You know he's actually pleased you're here?"

Greg snorted in disbelief. Maybe John was pleased, but Sherlock's reaction had been pure hostility.

John modified his statement to the idea of Sherlock being " _secretly_ pleased."

The DI decided to play along. "Is he? That's nice. I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his….his…" Greg ran out of words. He wasn't sure how much he should be saying.

But then John surprised him by finishing the thought. "…Asperger's?"

Sherlock chose that moment to come through the door, and Greg knew that he would have heard the word. His glower at John said as much. Greg knew from long experience that Sherlock did not like to be reminded of being on the Spectrum- it was surprisingly obtuse of the doctor to be so blunt. _What's going on between these two?_

To cover the gaffe, he asked Sherlock whether he believed the dog had actually been destroyed. The question was batted away, and Greg was left admitting that there wasn't much more he could do. He did offer to have a word with the local force. The police might have more information that could help settle the fact; he might get them to check with the vet about whether the dog had been put down as they claimed.

The whole business felt strange- not at all in Sherlock's usual league. If it was as simple as a hoax by the innkeeper, then the case was over. He hoped that Sherlock wouldn't be too disappointed. If this was the only case that had eluded Mycroft's ban, and it proved to be a bust, then the consulting detective would be seriously miffed. The DI tried to put as positive a spin on it as possible, saying it was a good excuse to get out of London for a while longer. Still feeling awkward, he beat a retreat to go find the details about the local police station. A couple of phone calls might bring the whole thing to an end that afternoon, and the three of them could head back home. He couldn't shake a sense of relief at that idea. _I don't feel good about this._


	3. Chapter 3

When Greg volunteered to check with the local police force for Sherlock, he had not realised that he as letting himself in for a bit of a challenge.

The local nick consisted of one man and his dog- literally.

The tiny “station” in Princetown was one room attached to the side of a cottage that had been converted into a tea room called The Old Police Station, on the corner of the B3357, a left hand turn off the main road from Plymouth. Ten miles away from Grimpen, the grey stone building looked rather grim under a scudding bank of low cloud, and had a big sign on the side entrance informing “customers” (Greg cringed at the word) that the office was only open one day a week, and only then in the afternoon between two and four PM. Helpfully, the sign advised that the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary maintained a full time police station in Tavistock and Okehampton, and gave phone numbers and website details.

But, as luck would have it, Lestrade turned up at the right time on the right afternoon, and Police Constable Malcolm Luscombe welcomed him in. The man was at the end of his career- probably in his early sixties, but still reasonably fit, even if it was under a balding head fringed with grey hair. The black Labrador lying beside the one desk and one chair thumped its tail in greeting, as he introduced himself as a Met Police Officer. At first, the local PC assumed that Greg had simply lost his way, and needed directions to Her Majesty’s Prison, Dartmoor.

“It’s just a quarter of a mile further on this road- you can’t miss it once you get out of Princetown; it’s the ugliest prison in the British Isles.” The West Country burr in his accent marked him as a local.

Greg shook his head. “I’m just in the area on holiday, and this is an unofficial visit.” He explained what he had uncovered at the Cross Keys Inn, the meat order at a vegetarian restaurant, the large dog, and the subsequent stories that had been spun about a mysterious hound running wild on the moor. The DI left out the fact that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were involved; he didn’t want their involvement to get the local force more excited than necessary. He ended up by explaining that the pub owners had admitted it was their dog.

Luscombe sniggered. “Serves those two right- you’ve done a public service there, putting a little scare into them. Odd pair, those two; come down as grockles from London five years ago, and then decide they like it here, so they bought the old pub at Grimpen. At first, a lot of the locals were sceptical- a little too ‘metrosexual’ for their taste, if you catch my drift. But most of that’s gone now, replaced by grudging respect. The local folk are happy enough that they’ve managed to keep it open at a time when pubs are shutting almost everywhere else on Dartmoor. Used to be that the holiday trade would keep the pubs alive enough in the summer to survive the winters, but it’s not enough anymore. I blame the cheap airfares myself. I mean, who wants to come to the rainy southwest when they can fly to the coast of Spain for less than it costs to drive down here from Manchester?”

The older man clearly liked to talk, but Greg had some sympathy. Doing office hours like this once a week could be a pretty lonely business, with only the rare visitor to alleviate the boredom. Yet, let the force suggest the idea of closing the “station”, and every local resident would be up in arms about “cuts” and being left “unprotected.” Showing your face was all part of the job, it would seem, just as much in Devon as it was in London.

The PC looked thoughtful. “So, all this hoohah about a rabid wild beast is just a marketing ploy? Well, I’m glad it’s nothing worse; we have enough trouble with the locals fussing about the Baskerville camp. They grumble and complain on a regular basis to me.”

“What’s the problem there?”

“Just the usual stuff, suspicious ‘goings-on’ they call it. Lights on the moor at night, talk of secret experiments, ‘genetic mutations’ to create battlefield animals. The stories are not helped by the fact that the minefield that was laid during the last war was never cleared. Bloody cattle end up trampling down the barbed wire fence that’s supposed to keep them away. Never did know an animal able to read a sign that said _Keep Out_. Even Barnaby here isn’t that smart.”

The DI tried to imagine the consequences. “A bit messy?”

“You could say that. At least a couple of times a year, there’s explosions going off as some pony, heifer or sheep ends up in the minefield. Army always compensates the owners, but it doesn’t stop the rumours. It’s to be expected, I suppose. Not everyone has a chemical and biological weapons research centre as a neighbour. Even I wonder what the hell they get up to and whether it’s going to escape. Not helped by the camp commander, Major Barrymoore; he’s a bit of an arrogant prick who rubs up the residents a bit. I end up peacemaker more often than not.”

“So, that’s the job, is it? Local community liaison?”

Luscombe nodded, as the Labrador got up and put his head in the older man’s lap for a pet. “Yep, apart from the occasional theft of farm equipment, or the odd break-in to a holiday cottage, there’s not much going on here. Even the prison is quiet. Last time a prisoner escaped was 2003. There were only 43 crimes reported last year in the whole of the Tavistock and west Dartmoor region last year.”  He grinned- “Bet it’s a bit more exciting in London?”

Greg decided against telling him that he headed up one of the Met’s twenty one Murder Investigation Teams. He shrugged and said, “There were only 118 homicides last year, but if you count all reported crime, there were over 700,000 in the Metropolitan London area. It’s a big place.”

Looking down at his dog, Luscombe smiled. “Hear that, Barnaby? If I worked in London, there’d be no time for you and me to enjoy ourselves out on the moor.”

“You like the moor?” Greg was from the Midlands, and had spent all of his working life in London. The windswept landscape here felt rather bleak.

The PC looked up from his dog in surprise. “Of course I do. Lived here all my life; know the people- went to school with them, grew up with them- apart from the incomers. They’re a different lot.” He sniffed. “Second homers- buy up all the old cottages, drive up the prices so the locals have no where they can actually afford to live. Then come down here for a couple of weeks a year, leaving the places empty all the rest of the time. Scandalous, really.”

“Do you know Henry Knight?” John had briefly explained to Greg the origins of the case that had brought them to Dartmoor- enough for the DI to be angry that the pub owners’ stunt with the dog had caused a troubled man such distress.

“Well- I know _of_ him, sure- everyone round here knows the story of his father. I was in my last year of school at Tavistock at the time- went to Kelly College there, before deciding to go into the force. The story was big news when his father died. Well, I say died- but they never found a body, and there was just the word of the kid, another Henry, named after his father. Some people say the father just disappeared with a lover, abandoning the kid, who got out onto the moor and made up the story.”

Luscombe then seemed to remember something and snorted. “Conspiracy theorists said he died in an experiment at Baskerville that went wrong, and the army covered it up.” He shrugged. “In any case, the family home near Grimpen was rented out and the kid went off somewhere to stay with distant relatives.”

“He’s back now, and none the better for the dog being used as a marketing ploy. Apparently, he saw it last night, and it sent him into shock. He’s with his therapist now.” Lestrade consulted his notebook. “Mortimer- Louise Mortimer.”

Luscombe nodded. “That makes sense. She’s a local girl- used to be based in Tavistock, but then moved to London. So, she’s back, is she? Well, good luck to them both. It’s not right that someone with mental health issues should be a victim of the Cross Keys guys.”

“So, do you trust them when they say they’ve put the dog down?”  Lestrade hoped the answer would be yes, because that would let John and Sherlock close the case. “Gary said it had become too hard to control, and Billy said he’d taken in to the vet.”

Luscombe looked down at Barnaby. “Not sure I buy that. If the dog was vicious, then how are they going to get it under control enough to get it to a vet?  And I know for a fact those two don’t have a gun, so unless they poisoned the dog, how would they do it? They’re big softies, those two. And I couldn’t do it to Barnaby here, even if he went bonkers and started attacking people. If they had any feeling at all for the animal it would be hard. I swear I cried less when my wife passed away last year than I did when this one’s predecessor reached the end of his innings.”

The older man kept petting the dog’s head, and the otter-like broad tail swung in a slow rhythm of bliss. When the hand stopped, Barnaby nudged it, greedy for more. “There are only two vets this side of the moor- one in Tavistock and the other in Yelverton. I’ll give you their numbers if you want to call. I shouldn’t get involved, unless Henry knight wants to make a complaint against the two.”

The Luscombe started to nod. “I’ll bet you it’s still alive. If the dog’s still running loose out there it would explain the rash of sheep deaths in the past couple of months. Had a farmer report a kill near two days ago near Winsor just on the bank of the West Dart - something attacked and fed off the carcass. Shame that; it means I’m going to have to get my rifle out and try to do the job myself. I really don’t like having to kill it, but it’s not like some TV show- no tranquilizer darts out here. Dartmoor’s not the Serengeti.”

“Can’t you just phone around the farms and tell them to keep an eye out?”

Luscombe snorted. “That’s all I need - the farmers will try to do it themselves if they think a wild carnivore is out there. Not a good idea- getting them all riled up will make them trigger happy.  This isn’t a place with tidy little fields with fenced in animals- their livestock are on the moor, so if they go out there, they’re just as likely to end up shooting each other as the dog.”

Lestrade told him that Gary had said they’d kept it at an old abandoned mine shaft, which made the PC nod. “That’s probably at Whiteworks. Nobody’s lived there for at least a decade, but there are still a few buildings at the top of the mine shaft.” He sighed. “I’d better organise a proper police hunt tonight, given it’s gone nocturnal on us. I’ll get that last carcass off the Sherberton Farm and we can move it back to Winsor where the dog’s been spotted. Stake it out, in the hope of catching it. If he’s hungry, he’ll come back to it.”

Luscombe rubbed his chin. “I could do with some help, Detective Inspector. I assume you’ve had firearms training?”

“Yes, but I’ve no experience with a shotgun or rifle.”

“Then I’ll lend you my pistol.”

Lestrade decided that it was worth doing.  If he could clear up the dog mystery without getting either or both John and Sherlock in on it, then even better. He had not been comfortable with the tension that he’d picked up on between the two men. It wasn’t like John to make reference to Asperger’s within Sherlock’s earshot, and it wasn’t like Sherlock to be quite so hostile to Greg when he’d first seen him. Something was going on, and he decided that getting the two of them involved was probably not a good idea. “Okay, where and when?”

“It’s on the other side of Cherry Brook from Grimpen, but as you don’t know the area it’s not sensible for you to walk it on your own after dark. The moor is dangerous in the dark. I could pick you up at the Cross Key at 8 pm.”

“I’m minus my own car out here, and got the Cross Keys to get me a taxi here; any chance of a lift back there now?”

Luscombe consulted his watch. “Timing’s right; it’s just gone four, so I can knock off now and head home. I live in Hexworthy, so Grimpen’s on the way.”

Malcolm ran a Landrover- he opened the rear door and pointed Barnaby in. When the Lab didn’t move, the PC barked a command, “Up!” Reluctantly, the retriever complied.

Greg slid into the front passenger seat, which was covered in a waterproof plastic cover, as the PC explained. “Dog sits up here with me most times; he’ll sulk in the back for a while, until I drop you off.”

Despite the non-stop whine emerging from the rear compartment, Lesrade enjoyed the trip back to Grimpen. The sun had broken through the clouds and was lighting up the golden grass and patches of gorse and heather.

When he got out in the Cross Keys carpark, Malcolm opened the back door, and the dog shot out and into the front seat. “I’ll pick you up at eight then- okay?”

“Sounds good.” As he wandered into the front door, Greg wondered if they could rustle up a cream tea or something for an early supper. Apart from breakfast on the plane back from Spain, he’d not had a thing to eat; just the pint of beer before Sherlock and John had showed up. He could do with a shower- and maybe even a nap if he was going to be up late tramping around the moor in the dark.

oOo

Luscombe was right about the dark moor. When he picked up Lestrade at eight, the Landrover left the pool of light around the pub and was soon enveloped in a dark tunnel lit only by the car’s headlights. Occasionally, the car lights would pick out the reflection of an animal’s eyes. He swerved to miss a couple of sheep sleeping on the verge, and swore. Barnaby was on the back seat this time, and the swerve was accompanied by the sound of his claws trying to get purchase as he slid across the seat. None of that really mattered, because all three of the Landrover’s occupants were trying desperately to ignore the stench of what was in the back compartment.

Greg had visibly flinched when he opened the front passenger door to get in. “What the hell?”

Luscombe nodded: “Ripe dead sheep. It’s what the hound left and the farmer picked up. Not a bad idea to get ourselves covered in the scent- should mean he won’t be able to smell us when we return it to the scene of the crime.”

Trying to concentrate on anything but the smell, Greg asked a question as they left Grimpen. “Why did you bring your dog along?”

“He’s got the better nose. He’ll tell us when the hound is coming, way before we will be able to see it in the dark. If anything, the scent of another dog in the area will bring our prey in- it won’t want a competitor stealing its kill.”

The smell was enough to make Greg regret that he’d had a spicy curry for supper. No sign of either John or Sherlock; according to Gary, they’d been out since he’d last seen them at lunchtime. He wondered what they were getting up to. He’d tried his phone up in his room, but the signal was weak and there was no answer to his text. When he went downstairs to see if the signal was any stronger, Gary saw him. “Sorry, Detective Inspector…signal’s crap out here. The only commercial mast allowed inside the boundaries of Dartmoor National Park is at Princetown. It’s better at Hexworthy; they get to piggy back on Baskerville’s mast; the army put one up on Laughter Tor.”

“Laughter Tor?!” Greg was incredulous at the name.

“I kid you not. Real name, but apparently it’s a West Country thing- comes from _lough_ which means a pile. That info is courtesy of Fletcher, who gives the walking tours to visitors. It gives a great view of the camp; near Dewer’s Hollow, too.”

PC Luscombe’s voice cut across the memory. “Not long now. It’s only a half kilometre from here. And I was lucky to talk one of the Tavistock boys into coming out, too. He’s parked up at the turning.”

Moments later Greg spotted a police car on the grass beside a single track road off to the right of the main road. Luscombe rolled his window down to greeted a PC who got out. “Evening. This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade from the Met.  And this here is Police Constable Ewan Thomas, who’s always game for a bit of open moor work.” 

A young man leaned in to look across to where Greg was sitting. “How do, sir? Ready for a little hunt then?” He couldn’t have been more than twenty five and wore a broad grin under his woollen cap. Even in the summer, the moor was cool in the night breeze. Greg’s light beige jacket made him a little over-dressed but under-prepared compared to the young man’s camouflage gear.

The door behind Lestrade opened. “Budge over, Barnaby; there’s room for both us back here.”  Thomas was carrying a shotgun, which he leaned up against the back of Greg’s seat. “Jesus, Luscombe. How long ago did that sheep die?”

“Two nights ago- but in May, you know the sun’s going to do its work. Farmer had to keep it _as is_ , so the insurer could verify the claim.”

“Spare me the details, just hurry up so we can get it out of here!”

They bounced down the side road that was little more than a series of potholes held together by the occasional piece of tarmacadam. The road was so bad that Greg realised the squad car’s shock absorbers wouldn’t have lasted the journey, but the Landrover seemed to be coping. A tumble-down dry stone wall appeared in the headlights, and then they rattled across a cattle-grid.

“The hound would have found it easier to catch the sheep here- it’s an enclosed field between here and the Dart; the Sherburton Farm across the river keep it for spring grazing, when the sedge grasses on the rest of the moor are still too dry.”

Barely a hundred meters on, Luscombe pulled the car over. “Okay, Ewan- you and I get the honour of lugging the carcass into the middle of the field, while the Detective Inspector here gets to hold Barnaby’s lead. He’s not to be let off, please. Might just head home from here- it’s less than three miles as the crow flies- or the dog runs.”

A quarter of an hour later, the three men and a dog were in position. Hidden behind the stone wall, they were stationed less than fifty metres from the carcass. The prevailing breeze took the stench toward the east, fortunately. Luscombe had lined up his rifle on the stone wall, using a night scope to get a good view. Thomas’s shotgun was loaded, but the breech was broken across his arm. Greg felt conspicuous with Luscombe’s pistol, so he put it in his pocket. He’d loaded it, but kept the safety on. The older PC had a pair of powerful binoculars focused on the line of trees alongside the river.  “It’s likely to come from that direction; Whiteworks is in that direction.” They all settled down to wait- including Barnaby.

An hour later, Greg was beginning to really feel the cold through the thin jacket. His hands were half frozen.  And then his phone beeped- a totally incongruous sound in the circumstances. He grabbed it out of his pocket, and ducked below the stone wall.

“Hello?”

“Lestrade. Get to the Hollow. ... Dewer’s Hollow, now. And bring a gun.”

“Sherlock- what’s going on?” He kept his voice at little more than a whisper.

“Henry Knight’s got a gun and he’s headed there.” The call ended abruptly, leaving Greg looking at the bright blueish white screen in dismay. Sherlock had sounded really tense. He thought about it and made a decision.

“Luscombe, I need to leave you two here at the stake out. Can I have the keys to the squad car, Thomas? I need to get to Dewer’s Hollow in a hurry.”

This was delivered in the same tone of command that Lestrade used with his own team, and he hoped it would work.

But, Luscombe was obviously made of sterner stuff than his Met colleagues. “Why? What’s happened?”

“It’s Henry Knight; he’s just terrorised his therapist and is headed off onto the moor for some reason. You stay here and get that blasted dog. I’ll see what I can do to round Knight up. Can you tell me how to get to Dewers Hollow from here?”

Thomas handed over the keys. “It’s got sat nav. To be honest, we’d be lost without it. But even then it doesn’t know place names like the Hollow. So when you get the car onto the road, drive no more than another twenty metres east and then take a sharp left- it’s signposted to Bellever. You cross some moor, and then into some plantation woods. Keep counting the turns to your left.” He stopped for a second, as if thinking it through. “Take the third left; in the trees you won’t realise that you’re doubling back on yourself.  Keep going until the road does a series of three 90 degree bends. When the satnav says the road turns north again, stop there. Here- take this.”  He handed him a torch, “you’ll have to use it to find the path- it isn’t signposted. Good luck, sir.”  

“Happy hunting,” Greg offered. “I hope you put the wretched dog out of its misery.”  Then off he went, stumbling his way around the potholes and got to the car.

Despite the sat nav, he nearly missed the sharp turn left, almost back on itself, with a tiny sign. Taking his foot off the accelerator, he swung the wheel and pulled the handbrake up, which slew the car onto the smaller road. Greg grinned. He could get to like the lack of traffic out here compared with London.

Thomas’s instructions seemed to work, but he nearly missed the fact that the car had turned back north. Sat nav’s tendency to make you think the car you were driving was the centre of the universe meant that it was easy to miss the cardinal compass points. He drew up off the side of the road, and killed the engine. When he got out, he heard the sound of wind in the dense trees, and there was an owl somewhere. And then his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he both heard the ticking of hot metal as it cooled, and saw the Landrover parked further into the trees- he guessed it was either Sherlock and John’s or maybe Henry’s, so he started running down the path next to it, through the trees. Barely thirty metres on, he spotted moving torch beams, and then came to the edge of what he realised must be the hollow, saving himself just in time from pitching headlong off the top of it.

“Sherlock!”

Not waiting for an answer, Greg headed down the steep slope, his own torch light picking out the figures of three men below in the mist that had collected at the bottom.

He heard John say something to a young man he assumed was Henry Knight; the doctor was speaking in a soothing voice. And Greg saw him take a pistol from Henry’s fingers, as the young man spoke. As he slid down the slope, the DI breathed a sigh of relief.

“But we saw it- the hound. Last night. We s…we, we, we _did._ We saw…”

Sherlock cut him off just as Greg reached the three men. “Yeah, but there _was_ a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it- saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus; that’s how it works….but there never was any monster.”

Lestrade picked up on the word “us” and the “drugged” and started to worry about Sherlock. Mycroft’s comments about old habits came to mind, but he whatever thoughts he had about that vanished as a loud howl echoed through the woods.  Greg’s eyes flew to the top of the bank in front of them, and he spotted something moving in the undergrowth.

John warned quietly, “Sherlock,” as Henry started to mutter in a panic, “No, no, no, no, _NO!”_

Sherlock put out a hand to try to calm the man, calling out to him, as Henry sank to the ground yelling in terror. Greg did not take his torch off the edge of the Hollow, where the dark shape continued to move. The animal turned its face toward the light, and Greg picked out a set of glowing red eyes, just as the hound snarled viciously.

“Shit!”

Greg’s startled epithet was followed by John asking him whether he was seeing what John was seeing up there; the doctor’s torch was turned onto his face to catch Greg’s horrified expression- giving him the confirmation he needed.

“Right. _He’s_ not drugged, Sherlock, so what’s that? What is it?”

Greg could hear Sherlock breathing raggedly behind him. “ _All right_! It’s still here…but it’s just a _dog._ Henry, it’s nothing more than an ordinary dog!”

As if to contradict that voice of reason, the hound threw back its head and let out a long howl.

Greg stumbled back at the awful sound. It was bloody enormous! As the beast leapt down the slope toward them, he shouted, “Oh my God...” It stopped half way down and opened its jaws to reveal a set of huge teeth that no dog had ever had. As it stood above them snarling he couldn’t stop himself from crying out again, “Oh, Christ!”

Sherlock moved away from the other men, but Greg couldn’t move- he was riveted with fear.  
  
It was only when the consulting detective shouted “No!” that Lestrade’s frozen stance broke; there was something so shocked and fearful in Sherlock’s voice that Greg’s own concern over-rode his fear.  He looked back to see that Sherlock was grappling with another man, pulling off a gas mask, revealing a face Lestrade didn’t recognise. Then Sherlock cried out again, “It’s not you! _You’re not here!_ ”  He head-butted the taller man, who crumpled slightly. Sherlock grabbed the man’s jacket, but the stranger didn’t fight back, keeping his hand clamped over his mouth and nose.

Behind him, Greg heard the hound’s growling escalate in volume, but Sherlock then shouted, “The Fog!” and John shouting “What?” as his torch lit up the snarling hound above them.  
  
Greg focused on Sherlock as he started shouting, “It’s the fog! The drug: it’s in the fog! Aerosol dispersal – that’s what it said in those records. Project HOUND – it’s the fog! A chemical minefield!”

As the words sank in, Greg threw his arm up to cover his mouth, trying to avoid breathing the stuff in. Whatever the fog was, it seemed to be driving the dog ever closer to them, snarling menacingly.

The man that Sherlock had attacked was now gasping in fear along with the rest of them, and he shouted out, “For God’s sake, kill it! Kill it!”

Greg decided he’d had enough of that bloody hound. He pulled out Luscombe’s pistol from his pocket and fired three shots into the dark. The beast flinched, but Greg had no idea whether it had been hit or not. As it gathered itself to leap down on them, John Watson fired the weapon he had taken from Henry- and this time, the animal seemed to feel the bullets. It squealed in pain and then crashed to the ground.  The two of them watched, guns poised, in case it moved again.

Behind him, Greg heard Sherlock move to where Henry was, and demand that the young man look at the dead animal. Despite Henry digging in his heels and repeatedly saying no, the consulting detective was unmoved, and shoved the reluctant young man forward.

“Come on, _look_ at it.”

Lestrade wondered about the sanity of bullying a traumatised psychiatric patient into confronting his worst fear, but decided if John Watson wasn’t stopping Sherlock, then maybe the doctor had a different idea. As Sherlock’s torch shone over the collapsed animal, the DI could see that it was simply a large animal, and now quite still.

Greg kept trying to use his hand to filter out whatever Sherlock had thought was in the fog, wondering if it was responsible for the panic he had felt when the beast had appeared to be twice its size and something not of this world.

Henry stood over the hound, staring. And then he turned back to look at the man that Sherlock had stripped on the gas mask.  “It’s just… You _bastard”_ He threw himself at the older man, screaming with rage. He pushed the man down to the ground, yelling, “Twenty years! Twenty years of my life making no sense. Why didn’t you just kill me?!”

John and Greg pulled Henry off the fallen man, as Sherlock spoke from behind. “Because dead men get listened to. He needed to do more than kill you. He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father, and he had the means right at his feet – a chemical minefield; pressure pads in the ground dosing you up every time that you came back here.”

Greg watched Sherlock hold his arms out wide and spin a slow circle, looking at their surroundings with a grin on his face.

“Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once.” 

He sounded seriously under the influence of the drug, but the terror that had been there was now gone, replaced with what could only be described as delight.

His coat billowing out behind him, Sherlock crowed with laughter, “Oh, this case! Henry, thank you! It’s been _brilliant_!”

Something in his tone worried Greg, but it annoyed John Watson, who called out in reproof- “Sherlock!”

He turned to look at the doctor. “What?”

John’s glare was matched by the ferocity of his one word, “ _Timing_!”

Sherlock’s face altered, delight replaced by confusion. “Not good?”

Henry had not stopped listening. And he answered Sherlock, saying “No, no- it’s…okay. It’s fine, because this means…” Knight turned towards the other man, whose identity Greg still didn’t know. Greg watched as John moved with Henry as Knight finished his sentence “…this means my dad was right.”

Behind Sherlock, Greg watched as the man on the ground started to get up. Henry tried to move towards him, but when John put a hand up on Knight’s shoulder, Greg matched it with one of his own. Henry was volatile, now tearfully accusing the man, “He found something out, didn’t he, and that’s why you killed him- because he was _right,_ and he found you right in the middle of an experiment.”

The taller man had managed to get to his feet, but before he could answer Henry, there was a snarl. All of the men spun to stare as the dog whined in pain but managed to get to its feet. Without a moment’s hesitation, John fired two more shots in quick succession, and the dog collapsed again.

Behind them, the man that Henry had accused of murdering his father took off, heading out the back of the hollow into the trees, pursued by Sherlock, who yelled “Frankland”- thereby answering the question that Greg had been asking himself since he’d first arrived on the scene- just who was this guy? Henry’s story made him realise that the bloke was a Baskerville scientist- and probably the person that Sherlock had been trying to track down all afternoon.

John’s instincts were to follow Sherlock, and that left Greg to keep Henry company as he pulled himself together and set off after the others.

Ahead of him, Greg could hear Sherlock calling out to Frankland, but Henry was lagging behind. Torn by his sense of duty to keep the man company and to tear off after Sherlock, Lestrade shouted at him to “Come on, keep running!”

Through the trees, Greg could see Sherlock and John’s torch lights bobbing ahead. A baritone shout carried back to him- “It’s no use, Frankland!”

  
Ahead, Greg could see the running figure break free of the trees, crossing a grassy area before a barbed wire fence. Frankland did not hesitate, but jumped over. His foot seemed to catch the wire and he fell; by the time he got up, the other four men had closed the gap, nearly reaching the edge of the trees. Frankland got up and then started to run forward a few yards, and then suddenly stopped moving. His back was turned to them, as the neared the edge of the forest.  The DI’s torch caught the warning sign on the fence in its beam, and he realised it was the minefield surrounding Baskerville.

Greg watched in horror as Frankland’s shoulders slumped, and then the night was ripped apart by a brilliant flash of light and an ear-splitting explosion.


End file.
